Ever have one of those days when nothing seems to go right, when even the simplest task seems insurmountable and every little speed bump looks like Kilimanjaro?

Sure you have. Everyone has days like that. Days when the hammer hits the thumb more often than the nail, when the snow starts to fall as you pull into the golf course parking lot, when the last $60-off iPod is sold seconds before you arrive at the big box store.

Over the years-owing in part to the fact I seem to have more "gremlin" days than most folks-I've developed a system for dealing with them, a five-stage process I call AAFDA (Annoyance, Aggravation, Frustration, Disbelief, Acceptance).

Last Friday was an AAFDA day. It went like this:

STAGE ONE: Annoyance-The drive to my weekend job (marine biologist) took about an hour. As I was arriving at the job site, all the electrical systems in my usually reliable truck went kablooey. Pulling into the job site parking lot, the engine died as well. I turned the key, but nothin'. No click-click, no vroom-vroom, no grinding noises.

Nevertheless, work waited. I opted to deal with the problem when the evening's job (cataloging Organ Pipe corals off the shores of Papua, New Guinea) was finished.

STAGE TWO: Aggravation-Ten minutes into the job (see coral thing, above) a key piece of equipment broke, an 18-inch subwoofer that costs about $200 to fix. My pay for Friday's job was $150, leaving me $50 in the hole. (Why I need an 18-inch subwoofer to catalog coral is difficult to explain; just run with me on this one.)

STAGE THREE: Frustration-We finished up around 2 a.m. and, along with a couple co-workers who know something about cars, we investigated the dark recesses beneath my pickup's hood. It was raining, of course. No car has ever broken down on a beautiful day at the beach alongside the Texas Bikini Auto Mechanics Team's tour bus.

After much prodding, poking, wrench turning and rain cursing, the consensus was: The truck was broken. Probably the a) alternator, b) battery, c) ignition coil, d) plug wires, or e) bad karma.

 A couple co-workers offered to drive me home, which lead to...

STAGE FOUR: Amazement-Dripping wet, exhausted, cold and disheartened, I squeezed into the back seat of my co-worker's minuscule, compact car, a space better suited to a gerbil than a human being.

As I struggled to find a place for my knees, other than on either side of my face, a sound like ripping cloth filled the car's interior. As it turned out, the sound was ripping cloth-the seat of my pants splitting gleefully up the seam. My co-workers, cultured gentlemen that they are, laughed until Mountain Dew shot out their nostrils.

STAGE FIVE: Acceptance-The ride home was a long one. The guys waited in the driveway, hi-beam headlights blazing, as I walked, tattered butt in hands, to my front door. My head held proudly erect, I turned and waved goodbye, using at least one finger.

They drove off laughing, anxious to find someone with whom to share the story. (This turned out to be everyone, as I discovered the following evening.)

But I no longer cared. I had reached the final AAFDA stage-acceptance.

Climbing into bed beside The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, I settled in for a good night's sleep, confident the next day would be better.

"How was your night?" Mrs. T asked drowsily.

"The usual," I said.

"Oh, that's too bad," she said, drifting back to sleep.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the name of a good tailor, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com/ or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

I've been directionally challenged since Kindergarten. Even in first, second, third and fourth grades, I routinely became lost during the five-block hike home from school.

It happened so often my mother quit worrying about it. She would wait until I was 15 or 20 minutes late, then hop in the car and cruise around the neighborhood until she spotted me. Most times I would be strolling along unconcernedly, not even aware that I was lost.

A big part of the problem is-as my mother or any teacher whose classroom door I've ever darkened could tell you-I daydream. My mind isn't especially active, but it does enjoy a rich fantasy life, and not just the one about the 747 filled with inebriated Swedish stewardesses, either. Though I'll admit that's one of my personal favorites.

Ahem. The point is, my mind wanders. It was worse when I was a kid, but it's still pretty bad. Especially when I'm driving.

Driving is the second most boring activity in the universe. (The first is watching any movie starring Rob Schneider.) So when I'm driving, my mind-in an effort to stave off terminal boredom-meanders off onto pathways of its own devising.

I think: What would I do differently, if I were president? Why do Super Balls bounce so high? How do people eat tapioca pudding without barfing? What is tapioca, anyway, because it sure looks like fish eggs. And speaking of fish eggs, who decided those were food? Probably the same guy who invented tapioca. Look! A cow! It sure is sunny today. The clouds look beautiful. Are those cumulous? Or the other one? Cirrus. That's it. Isn't there a third kind of cloud? Hmm. Another cow! There are more cows per capita in India than any other country in the world. Where'd I read that? I sure like cheeseburgers.

And so on. By the time my mind gets around to asking, "Where am I, anyway?" or "Wasn't I supposed to turn left about three exits back?" it's usually too late.

So it's only natural I finally broke down and purchased one of those GPS gizmos for my pickup. I've had it for about a month now, and lemme tell ya, these things are great!

No longer do I have to think about where I'm going. I just punch in the address before I leave home and the GPS tells me when to turn left, when to turn right, and when to go straight. It's like driving with The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, only the GPS gizmo actually has some rudimentary idea of where we're going. (Mrs. T makes her turn-by-turn suggestions at random, I think, or according to moon phases or something. I'm basing this opinion on typical results.)

Anyway, the GPS gizmo is wonderful. The only downside, as far as I can see, is that in the month I've been using it, I've become even more directionally handicapped than I was before.

I now find myself using the GPS to get to places less than a mile away; places I absolutely know how to find on my own. As Mrs. Taylor pointed out the other day, it's getting ridiculous. I know she's right, but I can't help myself. It's just too easy to punch in the pre-programmed destination and let the gizmo do all my thinking for me.

How long will it be before I need the GPS to guide me from my easy chair to the cold beer in the back of the fridge?

Sure, it's great to finally know where I'm going, to drive anywhere without fear of becoming lost. But GPS ownership has opened up a whole new inventory of fears, the most pressing being-if I should misplace my GPS gizmo, will I have to buy another one just to find it?

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or directions to a map store, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com/ or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

Usually, when I sit down to write this column, I have at least a kernel of an idea as to subject matter in the back of my mind somewhere. It generally develops as I go along and often changes direction entirely, going off into tangents I had not previously considered.

But today I got nothin'. No ideas, no clever notions, no stories of unfortunate mishaps.

What I have instead is the flu. Or a cold. Or possibly some new flu-cold hybrid, featuring symptoms of both, with a few "new and improved" symptoms added specifically for my misery. Whatever it is, I no longer expect to live through it, so I'll try to write fast, just in case.

It came on Sunday evening, and by Monday morning, I was a wreck.

Usually, I enjoy being sick, as long as I'm not too sick. A cold or slight fever means The Lovely Mrs. Taylor will cater to my needs in ways she would never consider were I well.

"Can I get you anything, dear?" are not words heard around the Taylor home unless someone's laid low with illness. We are, as a rule, a hardy breed here and manage to get through life without being waited upon.

Illness mitigates that fact. If Mrs. T catches cold, I whip up a big pot of my homemade chicken soup, bring her extra blankets and run to the store for orange juice and ginger ale. I love her, but that's not why I do this. I do this because I want her to feel obligated to baby me the next time I'm the sickie.

Quid pro quo, in its simplest form.

The only difference is, I don't ask her to make homemade soup. Mrs. Taylor does not cook. Not well, anyway. I barely trust her to heat up the canned stuff. I didn't marry her for her prowess in the kitchen.

But where was I? It's hard to focus. My fever, which has to be right around 147 at the moment, is making me feel as sharp as ... okay, think, there's got to be a metaphor here somewhere ... as sharp as ... see what I mean? Nothin'.

I'm guessing the over-the-counter medication isn't helping much, either. It's the stuff you're only supposed to take before bed, but it's all I have in the house at the moment. If I had any heavy machinery, I wouldn't be able to operate it right now.

Ah! Sick vs. too sick; that was the topic, I think.

Today, I am too sick to enjoy it. To make matters worse, Mrs. T's gone to the office for the day, which means there's nobody here to baby me properly. It's only 10 a.m. and she's already sent a couple e-mails enquiring as to my health and/or alive/dead status. But it's just not the same as having her here to place cool washcloths on my forehead and murmur things like "poor baby" and "aww."

Usually, when I write this column, I try to think of something clever for the last paragraph; something to tie everything into a neat, little package before I ship it off to my editor.

Sorry, folks, I still got nothin'.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or metaphors that work with "as sharp as a...", e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com/ or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

Every so often, nature and fate conspire to remind me that I am no longer 17. I hate it when this happens, because as a rule I'm comfortably delusional and able to convince myself I am a young man, and not-as the mirror would suggest-a geezer.

It's easier to fool yourself into believing this sort of nonsense if a) you have teenage kids still living at home, b) your wife is cute, and c) you still have all your hair. I do, she is, and most of it.

My youngest child, James, is the only fledgling who has yet to leave the nest. The older two beat cheeks as soon as the law and financial circumstances allowed. James I'm going to have to pry out of here with a crowbar.

But that's still a couple years away. For now, he's living at home and doing all the things teenage boys do. (Which is why I'm so anxious to see him gone.)

At any rate, one of the things he does-or rather did do before he got his driver's license-is ride a skateboard.

In the two summers he was skateboard crazy, he got pretty good on the thing. He could do all sorts of terrifying sidewalk gymnastics with no regard to possible injury, certain death or my mediocre health insurance.

Now, I hate to brag (actually, I love to brag-ask anyone who knows me) but I used to know my way around a skateboard myself. Back in sixth grade, every little old lady on my block knew to jump off onto the grass when she heard me rolling down Grand Street hill.

I was one of the few kids in the neighborhood who could "hang ten," which in those pre-Tony Hawk days was considered a real accomplishment.

That's probably why, when I saw James skating back and forth in front of the house last summer, that delusional gene kicked in and I decided to show him how we used to kick it old school. (Note to hip people under 20: If that "kick it old school" thing is no longer cool to say, I apologize-I'm elderly; don't ask me to keep up with the trendy vernacular.)

It was a beautiful summer's day and the whole neighborhood was out mowing lawns, riding bikes, planting flowers ... plenty of witnesses. It's been my experience that, if you're going to do something really, really stupid, you should do it in front of as large an audience as possible.

"Lemme show you a few tricks on that thing," I said to James. He handed the board over willingly, somehow sensing that his moment of sweet revenge for all the times I had grounded him had come ‘round at last.

I sat the board on the sidewalk, noticing peripherally that most of the neighborhood chatter had ceased. A moment before the air had been filled with the sound of kids yelling, parents chatting and hedge trimmers buzzing. Now all was now deathly quiet.

An electric charge of anticipation hummed and pulsed through the neighborhood as I placed my right foot on the board and pushed off with my left.

You might not think a man of 200 pounds could fly, but let me tell you, he can. But only briefly. It is a testament to the quality of the concrete work in front of my house that it did not crack when I reconnected with the sidewalk. It is further testament to James' self-control (and survival instinct) that he did not laugh, at least not until I had hobbled back into the house and was out of earshot.

It took me a long time to feel 17 again.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the number of a good chiropractor, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com/ or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

I'm thinking of doing something terrible. I haven't yet, but I am thinking about it.

I'm not certain what that terrible thing will be, but whatever it is, I want to make sure it's a doozy. If I were younger and prettier, I might have a torrid love affair with a girl who works as a high-powered attorney by day and an exotic dancer by night. They can't be too hard to find; I see ‘em on TV all the time.  

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor would no doubt disapprove, but thanks to a new online service-which we'll get to in a minute-she would never have to know about it.

Same holds true if I decide to pilfer money from the company; they'd never be able to prove it was me doing the pilfering. Forget for a moment that I can barely figure out how to cash my own paycheck, let alone embezzle millions. The point is, if I could figure out how to do it, I'd get away with it.

Better still, I could track down my ninth grade gym teacher and beat the snot out of him. He's got to be a little old man by now; how hard could it be? And heaven knows he's got it coming. Paddle me for wearing wrinkled gym shorts, will ya? It's payback time, Mr. Veet!

Again, I'd never get caught. Why? Because I'd have a perfect alibi, that's why.

That alibi might be that I was in the Alps skiing with George Bush, or fishing in the North Atlantic off the bow of Donald Trump's favorite yacht. Or maybe I was abducted by space aliens and forced to watch reruns of "Sanford and Son" while little grey men monitored my alpha waves.

It could be anything, thanks to Alibis-R-Us*, an online service that-for a price-will cover for you when you misbehave. And they will do it a lot better than your best friend Larry.

Unlike Larry, Alibis-R-Us won't spill their guts the first time your wife gives them "the look." If you say you were working late at the office, that's what Alibis-R-Us will say. Not only that, they'll call your home pretending to be a coworker and tell your wife you accidentally left some important papers in the Xerox room before you left the office-at 8:45 p.m.

They will dial you up early Friday morning and inform you (on speakerphone, if you know what you're doing) that "the boss" needs you to make an emergency business trip to Cleveland this weekend.

They will then send e-mails-from Cleveland-to your wife, telling her how much you love her and how sad you are that you missed your mother-in-law's visit this weekend. You, meanwhile, will be drinking margaritas on a beach in Barbados with a blonde flight attendant named Tiffany.

 Alibis-R-Us also will provide you with "virtual employment," fake tickets to concerts you never saw ... they'll even buy stuff for you that you're embarrassed to purchase yourself. (Like the "American Idol" boxed set.)

I'm not advocating bad behavior. Really. But it's hard to pass up this awesome online resource.

The problem for me is: I'm not evil, despite what you may hear from The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. I was raised Catholic, and when I do bad things, the guilt I feel takes all the fun out of it for me.

Maybe I could start small. I could jaywalk or drive around the block a couple times without buckling my seatbelt. If caught, I could get my Alibis-R-Us rep (posing as a psychiatrist) to say I've been diagnosed as delusional and am prone to erratic behavior.

I think could live with that. I mean, it wouldn't be so far from the truth.

* Not the service's real name, but it is a real service.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or to yell at him for putting bad ideas into the heads of otherwise good people, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com/ or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.